


rovinsky

by ronanlunch



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronanlunch/pseuds/ronanlunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>my rovinsky ficlets</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one hell of a mess

(A dark room, with a lonely silhouette on a bed - a young man with a phone pressed against his ear.)

BEEP

Fuck, Lynch. Fuck.

I had a dream about you again, or a fucking hallucination, I don’t know anymore, and you were dead. I mean, shit, know you’re not fucking dead, man, I know it’s all in my head, but… Fuck.

(Silence, only interrupted by uneven breathing)

Some nights I worry I will take you back with me. Other nights I hope. I’m so fucking lonely without you. So fucking lonely. I’m sorry about that weekend, Lynch, I really am, let’s go back, let’s forget the shit that happened, let’s just… I mean, fuck, I was hoping you would stay, I was counting on it, everything was fucking perfect, why can’t you see we’re fucking perfect. I should have fucking kissed you. I was so close, so many fucking times, I was so close and I didn’t and now you’ve left and won’t answer my fucking messages and I just miss you, man. I miss you.

(Silence)

You know, shit just gets so messy. And then, you fall, and you can’t get up. Y’know, people say it’s so fucking easy to get up. It’s not. So you fall. That’s one hell of a mess. You fall and you hope maybe someone’s fucking there with you, or whatever, and no one is. No one’s ever there with you, to help you the fuck up. So you’re stuck, and I’m so fucking sleepy man, but I had to call you, I had to, to make sure you were okay but you never fucking answer your phone. You never answer. No fucking personalised message either. I just want to hear your goddamned voice.

(Silence)

And I feel like I can’t do shit. I have to just follow the tide, see this through, this whatever. I don’t think anyone can stop me.

(Distant voice) Hey, K? Who are you talking to, man?

Fuck! Fuck! How do I delete this?

BEEP

(The young man on the bed drags a hand over his shaved head and takes a ragged breath before playing the message again.)


	2. black is the color of my true love's hair

“i knew you’d return to me, princess.”  
the voice is liquid in his ear and ronan was not aware he had fallen asleep but this voice only means one thing, this voice means dreams.  
he pushes off from the rain splattered ground and away from the fireproof boy.  
“i can’t fucking control it, kavinsky. stop taking it as a compliment.”  
kavinsky laughs, suddenly leaning against a tree trunk. white sunglasses are covering his eyes, but ronan knows where he’s looking, can feel the gaze run over his body, following the lines, the exposed skin.  
ronan needs to start sleeping in more than just boxers.  
“you should have paid better attention in my lessons then, not been so keen on running back to king dick.”  
his voice is soft and sweet and dripping with poison. ronan smiles at him sharply, squaring his shoulders, readying himself for battle. where noah had become less in death, kavinsky had become more.  
“it’s boring without you here,” kavinsky continues, walking slowly, aimlessly, picking on a scab on his elbow, but ronan knows where he will end up.  
all roads lead to rome, and in cabeswater, rome is ronan.  
“death means nothing.” kavinsky’s voice snakes up on him, fingers tapping restlessly against his shoulder, against his collarbone, against his lips, “you can still stay.”  
ronan shakes his head, shakes him off, closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of the damp earth, the smell of smoke and fire and charred meat, the smell of recently passed rain.  
“nothing has changed, k.”  
“please, man, you-,” kavinsky says and ronan wakes up.


	3. things you said with no space between us

he hasn’t been seen at school for days and days now. rather, you haven’t seen him, no one you’ve asked with a fist to their face have seen him, and his car doesn’t magically appear when you linger at red lights turning yellow turning green turning yellow again  
you ignore the night pushing at your windows as you drive back home, wishing you could feel his gaze against your neck

ten days and he’s still nowhere to be seen, not him nor his lackey, but his dogs run around, weary without their master. there’s no need pushing them for more information, they’re unimportant, they know nothing. he’ll find you. when it’s time, he’ll find you

if anyone asks, you’ve lost count, but it’s been seventeen days when you wake up and know he’ll be there. your sheets are warm and wet around you and you just know  
you get there well before first period and you can smell him before you feel him, shivers running down your spine as his hand touches your shoulders, fingers gripping the skin tight and maybe there’ll be bruises, and he swirls you around and pushes you up against the lockers and his lips are so close, so close as warm smoked breath pushes up against your face.  
“i saw you in my dream, princess,” he confides, as you knew he would and you don’t back down as your eyes meet and meet and keep meeting and then he’s gone but that was the first touch and it might just be the first of many


	4. things you said when you thought i was asleep

The leather bands are loose around the boy’s wrist where his arm is draped over the car seat, the whiteness striking against the leather. The other boy, the dark haired one, can’t help himself and leans over to compare his pale against the sleeping boy’s. His grin spells out victory when he pulls back, eyes hopped up on all kinds of drugs - weed, cocaine, love.

“You loser, Lynch,” he wheezes. The boy named Lynch stirs at the sound of his name, but not much, not enough to wake him. His eyelids flicker slightly - rosy; veined; the kind that you’d press lips against to settle. The dark head leans against the window, presses his back against the door, tries to be content with watching the steady breath, the ins-and-outs of the backseat. His fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, against the steering wheel, against his cheekbones and his lips and his naked chest, nails digging into skin until blood colors them red. Never wavering, his gaze, shining gold in the sun, threads invisible lines between them, connecting their bodies, their minds, their dreams.

“Fuck, this isn’t enough,” he whispers into the back of his hand, wiping his mouth before jumping out of the car, breath high as he hunts off to find a place to piss.

Dusty eyelashes stay firmly settled against the dark bags as Lynch frowns slightly, twisting in the backseat in search for a more comfortable position.


End file.
